Of Wars and Widows
by captainkitten
Summary: Captain Swan set during World War II. Emma Swan, a war widow, is working at a munitions factory when she meets a handsome sailor home on leave. But she knows better than to open her heart when a world at war only promises to break it.


The knock on her door had come at 8:15 in the morning. Loud and insistent, it echoed down the small hallway leading to the front door,causing her stomach to drop.

Because she knew he was gone.

—

Stepping out her front door, Emma quickly scanned the street. It was not half six yet, and the world was still rather quiet, only the light patter of rain on the pavement disturbing the stillness. Opening her umbrella, she set off towards the munitions factory at a quick pace.

It had been three years since war was declared, two-and-a-half since she began work at the factory, and two since the telegram had arrived. Neal had died valiantly defending his King and country. She should be proud to be the wife of such a brave and noble hero. His legacy would live on in infamy.

 _Bollocks._

She didn't want his damn legacy, she wanted her damn husband.

But wars seldom care about the wants of widows.

There had been little time to mourn him, even less to think about a future without him. The factory was in high production, and with eight hour shifts six days a week, there was little free time for anything other than sleep. So she carried on, settling into a routine as automated as the filling machines in her factory. Sleep, work, sleep. Sleep, work, sleep.

(She had managed a weekend trip to see his father and stepmother Belle. It had taken all her strength not to break as she watched Gold weep for his lost son, Belle's hand gripped in his as tears tracked silently down her pretty face. Emma had given him the telegram and the flag that had arrived with the coffin. Sentimentality would crush her if she let it too near.)

Her day on the factory line passed as any other, the monotonous beauty of it all stilling wayward thoughts. Here focus was king, one false move and, well, BOOM.

The shift whistle blew, releasing her from her trance, and she headed to change out of her coveralls and hairnet. Ruby cornered her almost as soon as she stepped into the locker room, buoyant and bright in a way that Emma sometimes envied.

She had been like that too, once upon a time.

"Swan! You got a dress? We're dancing tonight!"

"I'll pass, if it's all the same. Absolutely knackered. Raincheck?"

"Oh no you don't, you say that every damn time. Really Emma, you've got to come along. You know David's home on leave, and I think Mary Margaret may chain him to the radiator to prevent him from leaving again if we don't distract her. Besides, it's Friday night and you and I both know you could use a little distraction."

Ruby had an almost wolfish ability to nose out personal problems, and deciding it was safer to acquiesce and avoid her from pushing further, Emma relented.

"Fine, but I don't dance."

—

The dance hall was jumping by the time they arrived, a sea of bodies spangled in the finest uniforms and ration-friendly dresses wartime had to offer. Being only a stone's throw from Liverpool, the once small and unassuming village of Storybrooke had grown to near bursting as people fled the blitzed South and sought work and refuge in the North. That, combined with the underlying sense of desperation to think of anything else besides bombs and body counts, Emma doubted there was a townsperson left at home.

Mary Margaret hailed them and they twisted and wove their way back towards the table. Emma couldn't help but to smile at her friend, eyes bright and cheeks flushed with happiness, perched on her husband's lap. That smile grew when David practically tipped her off to jump up and wrap Emma in a bear hug.

"There's my girl."

She had known him for as long as she could remember, and he had always been the big brother biology had denied her. His mother Ruth was her mother's sister, and had taken her in when her own parents had perished at sea. Their farmhouse had been small but warm, with happy memories of hot chocolate, treacle tarts, and love.

She hugged him back just a little too fiercely, his familiar scent causing tears to prick at her eyes. She felt the brass buttons of his officer's jacket press into her chest, and the tears threatened even more.

Here was the one she couldn't bear to lose to this war.

Here was her heart.

He must have sensed her distress, his hand coming to cup the back of her head as he pressed a comforting kiss to her temple.

 _I'm fine. It's ok._

Easing back, he grinned at her in that stupid way of his, eliciting an answering one from her.

"You look like you could use a drink."

"Do I ever."

"Killian's off to fetch a fresh round. Here, let me introduce you to the lads," he pulled her towards the table, arm slung companionably around her shoulders. Mary Margaret squeezed in for a quick hug, making Emma smile all the more with her radiating happiness to have her husband home. David pointed out the seated sailors—Jefferson the navigator, Victor the medic, Robin the gunner, Will the machinist. They were a handsome bunch, she thought, white hats all tipped rakishly and skin tanned from the sun and sea. A new member joined the fray, plopping a tray virtually overflowing with drinks down on the table with a flourish.

"Bottoms up, mates!" he called over the cacophony of the hall.

David placed a friendly hand on the sailor's shoulder, drawing his attention. "Killian, this is my cousin Emma. Emma, this is Killian Jones, our quartermaster and general pain in the arse."

Emma felt her smile falter. He was beautiful, all inky black hair and bright blue eyes. He had the look of a rogue, a half-smile cocked on his mouth causing a dimple to wink on his unshaven cheek.

 _Shit._

"A pleasure. And…" he turned back to grab a glass off the tray. "…a Manhattan for the lady," he proffered, holding out the amber-colored drink.

She eyed him suspiciously. "How do you know my drink?"

"Let's just say you're something of an open book."

"So David told you?"

"Aye, he did," he grinned, unrepentant.

She took the drink and did her damnedest to ignore the jolt she felt as her fingers brushed his.

—

The whiskey was working some real magic.

For the first time in many months (years, even), Emma found herself having…fun. Pure, unadulterated fun. The pinch of tension was gone from her shoulders, her laughter bubbling free and easy. Victor had just told her the most disgusting joke, waggling his eyebrows at her lecherously as she shook with laughter.

God, she missed this.

A knee bumped hers, drawing her attention over her shoulder.

"A real pervert, that one," Killian chided.

"Something tells me you have a completely sordid repertoire of your own."

"I'll have you know I'm quite the gentleman."

"Mmhmm," she rolled her eyes. "So what's your story? Are you from Liverpool as well?"

"No, Manchester actually."

"So how'd you end up here? Didn't want to waste precious leave time with your family when there's carousing to do?"

"No family to waste it on. Lost my brother in the Denmark Straight, he was an officer on the Hood."

"I'm sorry," she said, feeling foolish.

Smiling ruefully, he took a long gulp of his rum. "Price of war, love."

"Don't I know it," she lifted her own glass in a mock salute.

He looked at her, eyes searching a bit, before the understanding hit. He raised his own glass in a return salute. They sat in a companionable silence for a moment, as survivors often do when talking of lost loved ones, both lost in memory. It was oddly comforting, however terrible that might sound, to meet someone who understood that part of her. That haunting feeling of loss and emptiness.

But tonight wasn't for visiting old ghosts.

"So tell me, sailor. What exactly does a quartermaster do?" she teased, shaking off the past.

"Well, my lady, it is a very important job," he started.

"HORSESHITE!" called out a very drunk Will.

"Higher rank than you, mate," Killian retorted before turning back to Emma. "He has the alcohol tolerance of newborn."

"Oi! I 'eard that!"

Grinning, he took another swig before continuing. "Basically, I steer the ship. Nothing too exciting, I'm afraid."

"Oh right, yes, nothing too exciting. Just controlling a great giant warship through volatile waters teeming with angry Germans trying to blow you to smithereens. No big deal," she quipped waving a hand airily, enjoying him as noticed the tips of his ears were turning a bit red.

Ruby sat down next to her, flushed and glowing, grabbing Emma's drink for a long sip. "Alright, Swan. Enough is enough. Time to dance."

"Ruby, I told you. I'm not dancing."

"But why? It's not like you're some old biddy with a bum hip. Tonight's for fun, remember? You. Need. Fun."

Emma felt her cheeks stain red with embarrassment. She didn't want to hash this out here, in front of strangers and friends alike. She didn't need the world knowing her business.

(Or rather, her deficiencies.)

"Ruby, plea—"

"She meant she's not dancing with just anyone, love. The Lady Swan actually just promised me the next dance," Killian interjected with a grin.

Emma could have cheerfully murdered him on the spot.

Ruby clapped happily and wagged her eyebrows at Emma before jumping to her feet. "You there, c'mon! We're dancing," she pointed at Victor, who gulped his drink and grabbed for her outstretched hand.

"Really, it isn't necessary," Emma began.

"Come on, darling. Once more unto the breach!" he stood up, ignoring her protests as he pulled her along. A mild panic shot through her as they made their way to the dance floor, before morphing into confusion when he deftly circumvented it. Grabbing an empty beer bottle from a nearby table, he headed for the exit.

"Where are you going?" she questioned.

"To dance," he said simply. "You don't seem like the type for crowds, however."

"What makes you say that? You don't even know me."

"Open book, love."

—

He tugged her through the back door, propping it for re-entrance with the beer bottle. The street was dim, as all the streets were these days with air raids and whatnot. A single street light illuminated them as they stood outside of the hall, the band music muffled but audible. It created the strangest feeling of being cozily insulated, like when walking through the forest as it snows.

"Shall we?" he asked, holding out a hand to her.

Frowning with sudden nervousness, she stared at his outstretched hand. "I told you I'm not much of a dancer. I don't know any of the steps."

He smiled, turning an ear to listen to the song playing inside. "Well, this one calls for a waltz. And there's only one rule to waltzing: pick a partner who knows what he's doing," he smirked, making her smile and roll her eyes.

"Now take my hand, and put your other one just there on my shoulder. Good. Now I place mine here and—"

His words trailed off as he pulled her close, bringing them flush against one another, poised to move but neither one doing so. She felt the press of his hand on her lower back, its warmth slowly trailing up her spine. He was looking at her in a way she knew he shouldn't, in a way she shouldn't want.

But for some reason, she did.

Seeming to read her mind, he broke the tension by starting to lead her through the dance, calling out step numbers in a ridiculous, sing-song voice.

"One, two, three! One, two, three!"

She couldn't help but to laugh at him. "You, sir, are an idiot."

"But look at you! You're a natural, darling," he smiled back, continuing to move them to the rhythm of music.

The world seemed to belong just to them in that moment—to the two crazy people dancing alone under a streetlight. He pressed her a bit closer, dipping his chin just a bit until it gently brushed her shoulder. His whiskers scruffed her cheek pleasantly, and she found herself leaning into him. It had been so long since she had been held. Just held. And her heart ached as she realized how much she missed it.

Yet even with Neal, it hadn't felt like this. This was…different.

"Now, darling, brace yourself," he whispered, his lips lightly brushing her ear.

"Wha—" she began, before gasping as he tilted her slowly backwards into a very smooth, perfect dip.

She had never been dipped before.

"Beautiful," he smiled down at her, causing her cheeks to heat. Emma closed her eyes and tilted her head back, enjoying the weightless moment.

He gently swept her upright into their previous cheek-to-cheek positions, and suddenly the feeling changed, a seriousness creeping in that caused her heart to pound traitorously in her chest. Feelings she couldn't afford to feel –not now, possibly not ever again – began bubbling to the surface.

She wanted him.

 _Shit. Shit shit shit._

Jerking back, she put some much-needed space between them. He looked at her now, smile gone, eyes dark and searching. No one had looked at her like that in ages (maybe ever), making her skin prickle with need and heat to pool low in her belly. It was a look of hunger.

And it scared the living daylights out of her.

Because she would lose him, too. War made widows, not wives. And even if the war miraculously didn't take him, she couldn't give him what he needed. She would never be able to give him her heart. She couldn't give what she didn't have, after all.

And he deserved someone whole.

"Emma, I—"

"Don't. Please don't," she said quietly. "I can't, alright? I just can't."

He gave her one last searching look, before nodding. She thanked him silently for not pushing the issue.

"Alright, love. Let's get you back inside before David sends out a search party."

"Thank you. And thanks for the dance, it was great."

"Anytime, love," he smiled, holding the back door open for her. "Anytime."


End file.
